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'Twas in the infancy of May,
The uplands glow'd in green array,
While from the ranging eye, The lessening landscape stretch'd away.
To meet the bending sky.
'Tis sweet in solitude to hear The earliest music of the year,
The Blackbird's loud wild note, Or, from the wintry thicket drear,
The Thrush's stammering throat
In rustic solitude 'tis sweet
The earliest flowers of Spring to greet,
The violet from its tomb. The strawberry, creeping at our feet,
The sorrel's simple bloom.
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